


The Big Question

by islasands



Series: Lambski [66]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Searching for love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:51:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam had been searching for true love for a long time. And he knew, he just knew, that it would all come down to whether or not a certain question he (always) asked was answered correctly...</p><p>And, yes, this story is about the origins of that particular question, one which we have come to know and love in a context rather different to the one used in this story. </p><p>Or is it? </p><p>A bit of fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Big Question

When the correct answer finally came he was shocked, astonished, gratified, and scared all at the same time. The side of his head hurt too, but the reason for that comes later in the story.

It had almost seemed miraculous. His eyes had spontaneously ejaculated tears, those nice cool tears that soothe rather than burn your cheeks. His wolf-spirit canines had ached. His navel had spontaneously ejected a little ball of fluff that he had been saving for such an occasion. His hair grew an inch overnight. At last someone had got it right - just when he was this close to giving up and getting a bad weave or wearing a large unflattering article of clothing to punish himself for being so unlucky in love!

Yes, it had taken years, far too many years, to find the one who knew the right answer. He had searched long and hard for the one who knew that answer, searching high and low, - mainly low, he admitted to himself, - but it still seemed noteworthy, possibly cringeworthy, that his choices in lovers had so often been wrong.

He could list the stand-out candidates, - the ones upon whom he had wasted so much misguided optimism. But had he really been misguided? In addition to diminutive height and size he had screened carefully for depth of character, shared values, a reliable sense of humour and, naturally, the moon and sun ascendancy aspects to their star signs. As far as was humanly possible he had tried to ensure his assessments turned solely on the candidates’ professed admiration of his mind, soul, wit and yes, let’s be honest, the size and endurance of his strudle. And he’d been optimistic because, well, for the same reasons really. No. His expectations had not been foolish, nor had his criteria been too narrow. It had to have been destiny thwarting his every move until _the_ one came along.

Now, back to the list. Yes, he would list them one by one. He found making lists a salivatory exercise in self-importance. If your life is worth living there must be things you have to remember or get done and the more the better. There is no big picture in life if you try to skip the details. He opened a blank document and wondered what to call the list. He decided to call it “Duds”. It seemed appropriate. Like dud fireworks that refuse to ignite, or dud bananas that look fine on the outside but inside are rotten, or dud appliances that can chop shit that you never actually want to chop. Duds.

Dud 1.

When I asked him the question he sighed and said “I think we should both start working out. Look at this!” He had poked at his stomach. “And this!” He had jabbed at his ass.

It was not the answer I was looking for.

Dud 2.

When I asked him the question he burst into tears. “Is that all I am to you? Is that what this is all about?”

It was not the answer I was looking for.

Dud 3.

When I asked him the question he didn’t speak for about 5 minutes. He stared into space. Finally he said, “That shit is the real shit, isn’t it. Wow.”

It was not the answer I was looking for.

Dud 4.  
When I asked him the question he gazed into my eyes, lovingly I thought. “Darling, I hate to tell you this, but I’m bored. You are so possessive, so crudely cut when it comes to love. You want something that doesn’t exist, not on the terms you seem to think are reasonable. You need to go it alone for a while and work out what you have to offer, really and truly offer another person. Because right now all you are offering me is the opportunity to be owned by you, taken care of by you, and fucked to pieces by you, when and if you feel like it.”

It was not the answer I was looking for. Prick.

Dud 5.

When I asked him the question he said “Well, yeah, kinda, but the thing is, I’m not actually gay and the thought of that thing, yeah that thing down there, going anywhere near any of my orifices is like the scariest thing ever, like entertaining a death wish. You know? I mean, let’s face it, deep down I am straight. I’m sorry if I led you on. It was just, you know. Unintentional. Sort of.”

It was not the answer I was looking for.

He stopped typing. The list was a bit depressing. He decided to wrap it up and go straight to the last item. The happiness item.

They had been fucking all night long and he knew he had made a deep impression on his new lover, so deep in fact that come dawn the poor boy had lain quiet, completely done in, - like a fish on the bottom of a boat. His arms and legs jerked. He was even gasping for air. It was such an attractive looking effort to breathe that he felt stirred up again. Such a plucky little bastard! He was adorable! And he was up for it. Hell yeah, he was well and truly up for it. The blue eyes looking up at him looked so serenely gobsmacked he decided it was time to ask the question. Normally he wouldn’t go in for the question kill so soon but there was something about this one. He was different.

He leaned over and whispered the big question:

“Are you having fun?”

He waited for the answer. He waited on tenterhooks. The smile that his new lover was using to smile at him was encouragingly broad. His eyes were twinkling. The dints at the corners of his mouth twinkled too. And he was flaring his nostrils as though savouring the thought of something nice to eat.

“Fun?’” he said. Then, “Get off me, you sexy fuckerbeast motherfucker! I will show you!”

And he promptly did a handstand, right there on the bed, and fell over awkwardly, hitting the wall with one leg, and the side of that big sexy motherfucker's head with the other, and knocking the lamp off the night stand when he landed.

Now THAT was the answer he had been waiting for!


End file.
